For the rest, Philip Athel was a typical English gentle. man.  He enjoyed out-of-door sports as keenly as he did the pursuit of his study; he had scarcely known a day’s illness in his life, owing, he maintained, to the wisdom with which he arranged his day.  Three hours of study was, he held, as much as any prudent man would allow himself.  He was always in excellent spirits, ever ready to be of service to a friend, lived with much moderation on victuals of the best quality procurable, took his autumnal holiday abroad in a gentlemanly manner.  With something of theoretic Radicalism in his political views, he combined a stout respect for British social institutions; affecting to be above vulgar prejudices, he was in reality much prepossessed in favour of hereditary position, and as time went on did occasionally half wish that the love he had bestowed on his Italian wife had been given to some English lady of ‘good’ family.  He was liberal, frank, amiably autocratic in his home, apt to be peppery with inferiors who missed the line of perfect respect, candid and reasonable with equals or superiors.  For his boy he reserved a store of manly affection, seldom expressing itself save in bluff fashion; his sister he patronised with much kindness, though he despised her judgment.  One had now and then a feeling that his material circumstances aided greatly in making him the genial man he was, that with beef and claret of inferior quality he might not have been altogether so easy to get along with.  But that again was an illustration of the English character.

We find the family assembling for breakfast at The Firs one delightful morning at the end of July.  The windows of the room were thrown open, and there streamed in with the sunlight fresh and delicious odours, tonics alike of mind and body.  From the Scotch firs whence the dwelling took its name came a scent which mingled with wafted breath from the remoter heather, and the creepers about the house-front, the lovely bloom and leafage skirting the lawn, contributed to the atmosphere of health and joy.  It was nine o’clock.  The urn was on the gleaming table, the bell was sounding, Mr. Athel stepped in straight from the lawn, fresh after his ten minutes’ walk about the garden.  Wilfrid Athel appeared at the same moment; he was dark-complexioned and had black, glossy hair; his cheeks were hollower than they should have been, but he had not the aspect of an invalid.  Mrs. Rossall glided into the room behind him, fresh, fair, undemonstrative.  Then came the twins, by name Patty and Minnie, delicate, with promise of their mother’s English style of beauty; it was very hard to distinguish them, their uncle had honestly given up the pretence long ago, and occasionally remonstrated with his sister on the absurdity of dressing them exactly alike.  The last to enter the room was the governess, Miss Emily Hood.

Mr. Athel, having pronounced a grace, mentioned that he thought of running up to town; did anybody wish to give him a commission?  Mrs. Rossall looked thoughtful, and said she would make a note of two or three things.